Down the alleys
Up the chimneys
Carried away by the gale
sump of wind in a strait street
Birds are clinging
Bells ae dreaming on the steeples
Trees be swinging
Houses trembling
And
Ghosts dissembling
Moon cloud-covered
Bats have hovered
But now hang tight
Having ceased from hovering.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem